Widow Sar Lome

Runs a standing mending-bee out of her Kilns doorstep, feeding and patching whichever salvors and kiln-workers turn up hungry or torn — the quarter's other hearth, no coin asked.

Sar lost her husband to a bad vault-air pocket eleven years back and decided, in the specific way grief sometimes decides things, that nobody else in the Kilns should come home to an empty table if she could help it. Most evenings there's a pot going and a basket of mending nobody remembers dropping off, and she'll patch a torn cold-kit or a split boot for whoever needs it while they eat, trading stories for thread. She calls it nothing in particular. Everyone else calls it the mending-bee, and shows up.